Maria, Que es Esto? Or, when emulsified fat hits the fire.
So, Attack of the 50 foot vagina was the first story growing from the convention of plastic surgeons. But there’s a second story. And, after reading this, you may decide everything ISN’T better with bacon.
Let’s fast forward a year, past the great vagina. The convention moved from the Mandalay Bay Hotel to Caesars. Now, I’m totally ADHD, and am never quite sure I’m in the right place — it’s one reason I’m always very early (so I can fix something if I’m wrong) — so I’m in line at Caesars, checking in, standing next to the huge white marble Caesar and trying not to see if it is anatomically correct (it is).
“I hope I’m in the right hotel,” I think nervously, “it did move this year, right?” I was about to pull out my reservation confirmation, when I looked around.
In front of me was a woman, world famous, for looking like a feline. Known as “cat lady” around the aesthetic community, her eyes had been surgically altered to resemble a felines, her nose shortened and rounded to be lioness like, and the only thing she was missing were whiskers. In back of me was an older gentleman without a wrinkle. He had gray hair coiffed neatly into a pomp-adore, but not a wrinkle anywhere on his face. And he was wearing white linen gloves. He was at least 80.
“Nope,” I thought, reassured, “I am definitely in the right hotel.”
Part of my responsibilities for photographing this convention was setting up a portable studio, and capturing head shots of all the speakers. I actually like doing this — although it’s hard — I have to bounce from one camera to the other, from shooting speakers on stage, shifting gears, to studio work.
The speaker entered the studio room, ready for her head shot. I should mention, by way of preliminary, this convention was held in mid-summer, and by way of reminder, in Las Vegas. It’s hot mid-summer in Las Vegas. One time I got out of my rental car at midnight, and it was 104 degrees. Of course, it’s a dry heat. Yeah, right.
I should have known something was up when the speaker was wearing a white wool turtle neck sweater.
“I hate having my picture taken,” she immediately said, upon entering the room, “and what ever you do, don’t get this.”
With that, she pulled down the neck of the sweater. And, what was there can only be described as hanging flaps of skin, not removed from her last face lift.
“Um,” I said without missing a beat, “no problem. Just leave that neck in place and we are good to go.”
“And,” she said, undeterred, “the bastard who did this to me is here today. Wait until I see him!”
The rest of the day was uneventful, until the live liposuction demonstration. My job was to photograph the laser assisted liposuction, performed in a break out room, for future promotional material. I was gowned and everything. And the doctors performing the surgery? You’d recognize them from TV. I watched as the cattle prod like tip was repeatedly jammed up under the skin, the laser liquefying the fat as it glowed red hot, and a shop-vac like machine sucking out the melted Criscoish fluid. I thought it was kinda cool, although I’ll never eat bacon again. (It kinda smelled like cooking bacon.)
The really interesting (disgusting?) part of this came after the event concluded. The doctor’s staff broke down the impromptu surgery room, and within an hour, you would never have known anything was different. As I walked past the room, finished for the day, heading to the bar for a well earned glass of Pinot, I heard:
“Maria. Que es Esto?” I looked into the room, and a hotel maid was holding up the bag of emulsified fat. Left there, it would seem, by the doctors.
“No se,” responded Maria, “No se…” And they pitched it into the recycling bin.
PS: Thanks to Maria, who let me know in my original posting I had the gray haired man farting from a vagina due to a poor word choice. I have corrected the error! Though, I gotta say….that’s funny.